


A Taste of Honey

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, references to canon-compliant drug use, victorian-era doctoring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:41:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A failure to observe leads to a successful deduction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Honey

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **tweedisgood** , with many thanks!

  
  
In retrospect, I should have seen it sooner.

I had ample proofs already of Watson’s unwavering loyalty, and his disregard for his own safety, particularly when assisting me. In the brief time we had shared rooms – and increasingly, cases – Watson had followed me unquestioningly across most of London, used his revolver in my defense a half-dozen times, waited in utter darkness with me to face thieves, murderers, and recently, a horrid serpent. He had even started writing accounts of certain cases. Not terribly factual ones, both for the protection of our clients, and because Watson is, in many ways, an incurable romantic. He is intelligent and not unperceptive, but utterly tone-deaf to the siren song of logic and the beautiful clarity of plainly-stated fact. He is far more interested in the human story, a regrettable trait that renders what could be a series of scholarly monographs into little more than a collection of adventure tales. But then, he is a doctor, always concerned with the well-being of his patients. Little wonder, then, that his primary concern as an informal biographer was the well-being of the clients, and not the precise inferences drawn from observation, deduction, and careful analysis.

And he _is_ a doctor, even if he is not in current practice thanks to the lingering effects of his Army career and a general paucity of funds. Although he cannot currently afford to buy a practice, I have seen Watson treat others, felt his expert touch myself. I have relied upon his medical knowledge more than once. Knowing as much, I might have been forgiven for thinking that he would know how to look after himself and his health. It would be an excusable mistake – for anyone but myself.

But I _am_ observant. I make my living by being so, but even if I did not, it is simply part of who I am. I see, and I extrapolate from what I perceive. Therefore I had absolutely no excuse for my failure. I simply was not paying attention. Worse, I never even thought twice about it. Never considered the possible ill-effects of bringing Watson with me on what proved to be several days of investigation, where we were out at all hours in miserable weather, skipping meals, and getting very little rest while dragging through some of the seediest –and most pestilent – corners of London. It was no more than I was subjecting myself to, after all. Why should I consider the matter further?

Because I know I am not as other men. And because I knew full well that Watson was still technically recovering from the wounds he sustained in the Afghan campaign, and the near-fatal illness that had followed. A set of traumas so severe and long-lasting in their effects that they ended his Army career.

I knew this, but I had long since ceased to think of Watson as an invalid, or anything other than a reliable companion, a constant source of strength, support, and occasional pawky humor. I certainly never considered him as _fragile_. The very word stood in opposition to my awareness of him. Watson was solid, steady, hale, utterly dependable, and a dead shot.

But I should have known better. He still limped occasionally, when the weather changed or he had overtaxed his once-injured leg. His shoulder pained him often. And despite Mrs. Hudson’s excellent cooking, Watson remained noticeably thinner than a man of his build should be.

In short, Watson’s full recovery was as yet incomplete, his reserves and long-term health not something to be taken for granted. Not something to be casually, thoughtlessly risked in pursuit of an interesting, but not life-threatening, case. And yet I did so. Worse, when Watson gently declined my invitation to join me in pursuing an additional lead in Bath, I thought little of it.

That is not entirely true.

I was somewhat irritated, and underneath that, perhaps a touch disappointed. But I assumed – incorrectly, and without any evidence – that Watson’s leg or shoulder had decided to trouble him again, and my friend preferred a day of rest in front of the fire to further exertions.

I heard, but did not heed, the unusually quiet tones of his voice, and the relatively few words he used.

I saw, but did not correctly interpret, the splash of bright color across his cheeks.  I thought it embarrassment, or perhaps shame, at choosing a day of sloth over accompanying me.

I did not think. I did not truly observe. I did not stop to consider that Watson is as unsparing of himself as any man I have ever met, myself perhaps excepted. I failed to remember Watson’s constant loyalty.

Instead, I left him at Baker Street and went on to Bath. My investigation there took more time than I had initially planned. What had been intended as a simple day-trip extended into three days. And other than sending a brief telegram to Watson, informing him that I would be away longer than expected, I did not think of him much at all.

The matter finally resolved itself on the fourth day. I returned to London, satisfied but tired, ready for one of Mrs. Hudson’s substantial suppers and a long, comfortable conversation with Watson. I would tell him all about the case, and he would be amazed, as usual. Perhaps even sorry that he had not chosen to come with me to see the results of my inquiries for himself.

I certainly did not expect to be waylaid by Mrs. Hudson almost the moment I opened the door to 221. A single glimpse of her drawn face and less-than-perfect dress was enough to send a cold shiver of dread down my spine.

She seized my arm before I could ask her what was the matter. “Thank goodness you’re back, Mr. Holmes,” she muttered. “Doctor Watson wouldn’t let me send for a doctor, said he couldn’t afford one, and tried to make out that he wasn’t so badly off. But he’s barely been able to swallow for three days, and he’s been burning with fever for at least that long. I’ve done my best to tend to him, but I’m at my wits’ end. You’ll be sensible and call in a doctor, won’t you?”

Which is how I learned what I should have seen immediately, before I’d left him: that illness, not disinclination, had kept my Watson from my side.

The remainder of the day passed in a blur. I gave the house-boy the name and address of old Dr. Stevens, a former client whose practice was not too distant, and whom I knew to be both reliable and reasonable. Had I not known him, I would have sent him out for the nearest doctor, whoever he might be, and disregarded the possible expense. True, neither Watson nor I had much in the way of funds to spare, but neither were we as destitute as we had been – and for this, I would find the money however I had to, should it be necessary.

Unfortunately, Dr. Stevens merely confirmed what Mrs. Hudson had already told me. Watson was dangerously ill with a high fever and an infected throat that threatened to turn putrid. There was not much that medicine could do for such a malady, but the old doctor did his best. Unfortunately, just trying to get the medicinal mixture Dr. Stevens concocted down Watson’s inflamed throat was a mostly futile struggle. Watson was too incoherent – and in too much pain – to swallow voluntarily, and as much medicine wound up across his front as it did down his gullet.

“Keep trying to cool him down and get liquids into him,” the doctor said at last. “I'll leave you a packet of medicine. Dissolve it in water and try to get him to drink it. I must see to other patients, but I will return as soon as I can.”

I pretended confidence, but inwardly I frowned at the thought of the upcoming hours. I am no nurse, but Mrs. Hudson was clearly exhausted and unequal to further efforts. I would simply have to improvise. The instructions were simple enough, after all.

Mrs. Hudson eyed me askance but did not object when I suggested she get some rest while I took a turn. She left me well-supplied with a tea-tray and sandwiches for myself, water and broth for Watson, and a basin for wetting cloths. The water in the basin soon turned from chill to warm as I continually wiped Watson’s face and neck, trying to cool him. My friend stirred restlessly under my hands, but his eyes remained closed most of the time, and failed to focus on me when open.

He’d lost weight in just the few days I’d been away, fever wicking away moisture from his body and flesh from his bones. His cheekbones were more prominent, the hollows beneath them alarming. His skin felt hot and dry, unnatural. Worst of all was the utter lack of recognition. I sincerely doubted that my Watson had any idea I was there, trying (however ineptly) to help him.

If there was any help to be had for him.

Instinctively, I flinched away from the thought, but then made myself face it. Watson – my Watson, my friend – could die of this. Could perish from simple mischance, failure to observe, and general neglect; and if he did, I would bear at least some of the blame.

Unacceptable.

I tried once again to get Watson to drink, with little success. Frustrated, I set down the glass and reached instead to pour out a little tea for myself. I had no interest in the sandwiches, but a mouthful or two of good tea would help clear my head. I would rather have had a cigarette, but even without Dr. Stevens' strict injunction, I recognized that a tobacco-smoke atmosphere was not the best thing for Watson in his current condition. And leaving Watson alone, even long enough to smoke a cigarette – or fetch my cocaine-vial and needle – was unthinkable. The stimulants at hand would have to suffice.

I took a mouthful of tea and nearly spat it back out again. The tea in the pot had stewed almost beyond drinkability. I could feel my mouth tissues puckering at the tannic taste. I reached for the honey-pot, in the unlikely hope that if I added enough, the beverage might prove tolerable after all. A generous spoonful was in fact an improvement, if only because the honey-thickened fluid coated those previously irritated tissues…

I froze as the idea ricocheted in my brain.

It could not hurt to try. At least I was fairly sure I could do no real harm, aside from possibly causing a mess.

Rather than try and get Watson to drink again, I reached into the honey-pot with a spoon and coated it well. Carefully, I brought the spoon to Watson's dry, cracked lips, and coated them with the honey as best as I could.

It was messy. I could not be as precise with the spoon as I would have wished, and a smattering of honey wound up in Watson's moustache instead of on his lips. My friend flinched slightly, perhaps disturbed by the sensation, and I readied the damp rag, prepared to wipe away the sticky substance.

 _And then Watson licked away the honey from his lips_. Better yet, he _swallowed_ afterwards. And did not moan.

I reached again for the honey-pot. This time, instead of trying to use the spoon, I dipped a finger directly into the pot, and then applied the substance onto Watson’s dry lips. They were cracked with fever, yet soft beneath, and so hot to the touch!

Watson licked and swallowed again.

Over the next half-hour, I managed to coax the entire contents of the small honey-pot into Watson, admixed with as much water as I could dribble onto his lips with the sticky substance. When the honey ran out, I summoned our house-boy and instructed him to first bring me every bit of honey in the house, and then to go out and acquire more at the earliest opportunity. The boy looked bewildered at such an admittedly bizarre request, but he knew me well enough not to argue. He returned in a few minutes carrying a large ceramic jar, much larger than I had hoped. Either the household used far more honey than I was aware of, or Mrs. Hudson was fond of it. I thanked the boy and sent him on his way before returning my full attention to the problem of Watson, liquids, and the honey-jar.

I am not certain how much time passed. Some interval went by, of that much I am sure, if only because of the evidence of the lowered level of water in the pitcher, the increased mess of honey-spatters on the tea tray, my hands, the blankets, Watson, and nearly every other surface, and the aches throughout my body, from tension and fatigue. I realized it had passed from evening into night, and that the clock in Watson's room had stopped, run down at some point.

All that was rendered immaterial – irrelevant – forgotten, when Watson's eyes opened and focused on me with hazy recognition in their depths. Still fevered, still ill, but aware enough to know me. "Hol – " My half-spoken name was nearly unrecognizable, but nonetheless as welcome to me as the finest violin music.

"Watson, don't speak. I have medicine here for you. You must drink it, and then have some broth."

Watson blinked, then nodded faintly.

I made sure to add a large dollop of honey when mixing the contents of the medicine-packet with the last of the water from the pitcher. Watson's face when I helped him drink suggested that I probably hadn't added enough, or that the tastes of medicine and honey did not mix well, but he managed to sip it all down.

"You've been quite ill, my dear Watson," I told him after he had finished the contents of the glass. "I'm afraid the broth hasn't stayed very warm, even next to the fire, but you need the nourishment, so do the best you can to eat it."

It was an odd thing, feeding a grown man – my Watson – a bowl of broth, spoonful by spoonful. Watson's heavy-lidded gaze remained fixed on my face, as if he found this just as remarkable as I did, but he continued to open his mouth when presented with a spoon, which was all that really mattered. By the time the bowl was empty, however, he could scarcely keep his eyes open, and his face was dotted with flyaway broth-drops.

…No. When I looked closer, I realized it was sweat dewing Watson's face, along with traces of honey from my earlier efforts.

I hoped the sweat was a good sign. Unfortunately, the man I relied upon for expertise in medical matters was the one currently doing the sweating, and even I knew better than to ask him about it under the circumstances.

"Can you stand to drink some more water, Watson? I'll add some honey; it seems to help you swallow. Dr. Stevens insisted that you ingest as much liquid as possible."

Already more than half asleep, Watson spared me a confused glance, but nodded again.

"Splendid. I shall refill this pitcher and be right back." I did not want to leave Watson's side, but the quietness of the house suggested that everyone was abed.

Abed, but not asleep – at least not in Mrs. Hudson's case, not anymore. I heard her door open as I stepped out of Watson's room, and she met me as I filled the pitcher from the bathroom tap. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes. I slept far longer than I meant. How is he doing? Any change?”

“He’s awake, or was a few moments ago. I’ve managed to get him to drink some broth, and most of the pitcher. And he’s sweating,” I added, in case this meant more to her than it did to me.

Apparently it did. Mrs. Hudson clasped her hands together before rushing off to Watson’s room. I followed hard on her heels, anxiety shivering down my spine. Was sweating such a dire sign, then?

Moments later I felt my worries fall away. Mrs. Hudson greeted Watson cheerfully enough, and a broad smile creased her face as she felt his damp forehead. “I do believe your fever is breaking at last, Dr. Watson.” Her smile faltered as her eyes settled upon the honey-jar, and vanished entirely as she took in the sticky mess adorning the bedclothes, tea-tray, and various bits of furniture.

“It seemed to help him swallow,” I offered before she could say a word.

All traces of ire vanished. “Why yes, honey is good for sore throats. I’ve been adding it to the Doctor’s tea and puddings all week, although not in such…quantity.” She patted Watson’s shoulder. “Still, if it’s done you good, that’s the important thing. Anything to help you get well, and I do think you’ve turned the corner, thank heavens.”

That explained the presence of the large jar of honey, but all the same, I made sure to apologize directly to Mrs. Hudson for the state of Watson’s sickroom as soon as Watson nodded off again. I owed her more than I could repay, for caring for Watson so well while I was away. For noticing Watson was ill, when I had failed to do so.

“Just remember to buy me another crock of honey,” Mrs. Hudson told me with a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t dare use that one now, if there’s any honey left in it.”

“I’m glad you acquired it,” I told her, and I meant it.

I meant it even more, when Dr. Stevens returned and pronounced Watson out of immediate danger. “He is still ill, but if he continues to improve as he has, I believe he will make a complete recovery. Keep him warm and quiet, and he should not venture out of doors for at least three days after the last of the fever abates. A remarkable young man,” he added. “His constitution appears more robust than I had guessed. I am glad of it, for I had the gravest doubts of his recovery when I first examined him.”

Although the danger had passed, a chill ran through my chest at his casual words, which only deepened at Mrs. Hudson’s understanding nod. I am not a fanciful man, but even so all the horrible IFs made themselves known to me in sudden flashes. IF Mrs. Hudson had not noticed Watson’s illness, and taken extra care of him – IF I had delayed in my return – IF Watson had continued to worsen – IF I had not stumbled across the solution of honey for getting Watson to drink –

IF Watson had died…

I shook off those black thoughts, although I could tell that they would return if I let down my guard. “Thank you, Dr. Stevens, we shall follow your instructions to the letter. Now if you will excuse me, I must wash up. I find myself rather the worse from my adventures in tending the ill.” A convenient excuse, but also true; I was unpleasantly sticky with the residue of travel, stress, and the residue of honey.

“Yes, I noticed the mess,” Dr. Stevens acknowledged with a wry smile. “Honey is an old folk remedy, of course. My own mother swore by it. As a medical man, I don’t use it much, but given this night’s results, perhaps I should prescribe it for more than childhood complaints. Dr. Watson’s improvement is certainly remarkable.”

That notion stuck with me as I retreated. I knew little about honey myself, or the bees that produced it. Certain chemical researches could be done. The bees themselves might prove an interesting study.

After all, anything that might have had a hand in my Watson’s recovery was worth a closer examination.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted June 28, 2012


End file.
